The “4.15 One off canteen” is proving a big hit with people explaining their USP in order to get a mention. Someone claiming their legs were made entirely out of baked beans had our antennae twitching. What they hey! If it was true, that person would be unique no doubt about it.
The show hasn’t been dull. Bizarre yes, surreal yes, but hopefully not dull.
We have for some time now been adopting a “National week”. This is an attempt to invest our little show with some sense of importance. We don’t get much attention normally, tucked away at 2am, so we have to try and punch above our weight. This is obviously leading to delusions of grandeur.
Dr Strangelove and I (he is the one sleeping under the desk) are obviously beginning to lose our grip on reality. Not sure how far we can get with this before we are removed from the building.
Keep an eye on the webcam over the next few weeks in case we suddenly turn up wearing military uniforms and start spreading maps of the world all over the place.
We are both under 5ft 7” so the “small man” syndrome is very much in evidence.
No wonder Sarah Kennedy refers to me as “Napoleon.”
Unfortunately, the Dark Lady was very busy this week in meetings and being a “tycoon” so we have only managed to grab a few minutes together. Therefore, I had to make my own entertainment.
Monday was spent in the bazoom of my family. Sister and brother-in-law turned up at my Dad’s house. He is looking very chipper these days and also rather stylish. We attribute this to his hot new squeeze, June, who is putting a spring in his step and ensuring he appears less rumpled.
My Dad has thirty years on me but I know only too well how easy it is to succumb to dishevelment.
It is in the Lester genes. No matter how expensive suit, haircut, shirt shoes and tie etc. within ten minutes of donning the apparel there is an audible “Sproing” and we look like we have stolen the clothes off the back of a tramp.
June did ask if we thought it OK to try and smarten the old man up a bit. Everyone - especially my Father - agreed it was about time he had some new clothes.
The only worry was that he would re-appear in jeans. I may be wrong here, but if you are 83 years of age, jeans don’t really work unless you are a Texan mending fences on your “spread”.
There was also the slight concern that he may affect a neckerchief.
Didn’t fancy turning up and seeing a man that I have loved and idolised all my life looking like a cross between Terry Thomas and Patrick Cargill in Father, Dear Father.
No. All was well. A pair of smart but casual trousers, new sweater and a blue shirt.
Everyone was looking pretty good except me. I am the cover photo for this month’s issue of Society Scarecrow (Incorporating Modern Hobo).
No idea what your excuse is if you are permanently rumpled. Mine is “the hours”. That is why I am still with the “No socks ‘til autumn” routine; who wants to try lacing things up at 1.00am? Sandals R Us at this time.
Up…teeth… shorts…T shirt…Sandals…Out the flat and into the car five minutes after the alarm. Sorted.
Did a bit of CD hunting for “Lester’s Library” on Tuesday and have managed to track down a few of the songs that I heard on American Adventure 3 in May (which now seems a lifetime ago). Was unable to get some of them as they had not been released. Now, however, they are available on import. Trouble is, due to the poor exchange rate they are cripplingly expensive so I am going to have to buy them a couple at a time.
Wednesday and a gentle stroll along the canal towpath to trendy Islington to meet my friend, Charlie Jordan. She is a DJ and a Poet and has, over the years, been heard on many stations including Radio 1 and 2. Unfortunately, due to pressure of poetry, she won’t be able to make the next “Nerd Night” where radio DJ’s get together and try to out-bore one another. She may, of course, be lying as she can’t bare another one.
Charlie is very tall and thin and has also modelled in the past, yet she has an addiction to cakes. No idea how her metabolism works but she never puts on any weight.
I always hang back when she suggests meeting at a cake shop as I have no willpower.
This place was packed full of Islington “Yummy Mummies” and I can tell you, without any shadow of doubt or fear of contradiction: August is pregnancy season in this part of town. Charlie said she wasn’t and I’m certainly not, but everyone else was about 8 months gone.
I think - but won’t swear to it - that I heard a rumour that London Mayor Boris Johnson was thinking of introducing “buggy lanes” on the roads hereabouts, in order for the aforementioned Mummies to be able to waddle to and from the shops and ante natal classes, pushing last year’s model in the expensive three-wheeler pram without holding up the other vehicles.
As I left, the traffic seemed to consist mainly of taxis that were refusing to pick up a bloke who had a small cardboard box containing a lamp.
As yet another screeched off with the driver nodding, I suggested he jot the licence number down and complain.
The average licensed London taxi can hold 5 people. Or one Yummie Mummie an expensively dressed child and lots of designer shopping. Surely they could have fitted one thinnish looking bloke holding a small box containing a lamp?